Warrior Heart
by Luthien17
Summary: When General Porthos is embroiled in a gruesome battle near the front, he comes to realize the ugly truths of war that can only exist when a warrior meets another warrior on the battlefield, with swords drawn and hearts broken. Post S3.


**Disclaimer: I do not own anything. All rights belong to Alexandre Dumas and the BBC.**

_Note: Had this spinning in my mind, and I just needed to get it out quickly. Quite dark, probably. Beware of bloody and unpleasant battlefield descriptions.  
As usual, only second-language English. And excuse my Spanish skills. It's been a while. Enjoy._

Summary: When General Porthos is embroiled in a gruesome battle near the front, he comes to realize the ugly truths of war that can only exist when a warrior meets another warrior on the battlefield, with swords drawn and hearts broken.

* * *

**Warrior Heart**

_Under the steel of my enemy's armor is beating the same warrior heart  
And though we both know how to kill without fear  
We don't care if the world falls apart  
And once in a while, you will see me cry  
_

_September 1641, somewhere near the Spanish Netherlands_

The camp smelled like wine and blood, a disgusting scent that everybody had gotten used to over the past couple of months. A dark night surrounded them, and the tension in the air was foreboding the clash that was to come, the blood that was about to be shed. On the open field, right next to a dark, menacing forest was a white sheet of field tents, some already looked shredded and slightly torn, and speaking of the weeks the hundreds of men had spent outside.

One of the tents was even covered with red and black spots, caused by blood and dirt. A soldier, carrying a flag, white and with the red cross of Burgundy, passed the tent and grunted something incomprehensible towards the people inside.

In the corner of a tent sat a man, his face pale, and his dark, long hair covering his shoulders. His uniform spoke of a higher rank, but it looked as ragged as the man's face looked weary. He acknowledged the information he had received briefly with a gesture of his hand, before he steered his gaze back towards his knees.

His sword was lying a few feet away next to the tent's entrance, and with a heavy heart, he realized he'd have to use it far sooner than he had hoped. His troops had moved closer and closer towards the French regiment, under the command of a musketeer general. He did not know the generals name, but he knew his history amongst the elite guard of the French King.

And despite the fact that this general was his enemy, he had grown to respect him, and to admire his devotion and tactical thinking. Even if it had resulted in the death of a comrade he had spent the last decade with, and whose blood was still painting his armor red. Still, he found it hard to feel hate for the general, or any of the enemy's soldiers.

His hands reached for his pocket, and he pulled out a tiny, wooden figure of a wolf, howling to the moon. The wood was shiny and polished, and he cared for it even more than for his sword. A smile played on the corners of his mouth, and he turned the wolf around to look for the engraving. _Para tí, Papa._

He closed his eyes as a wave of emotions threatened to overcome him. Longing, love and happiness, paired with a cruel heartache that was with him ever since he had left his home.

Every time he looked at this parting gift, he remembered the last time he had seen his family. His son, only eight years old, with his stupidly long hair and his sheepish smile.

"_Cuándo retornas a casa, Papa?"_ the boy had said, and the expression on his sons face that day was something he'd remember for the rest of his days. Fear and disappointment, paired with such innocence only a child could possess.

"_No lo sé,_" he had answered, "_lo antes posible_." and the look his wife had sent him was crystal clear. She wasn't even sure if he would come back. Still, she hadn't dared to speak it out aloud, and she had merely pressed a kiss on his lips, her eyes desperately begging him for something only he could understand.

"_Ten cuidado_," she had whispered. "_Te espero aquí."_

Her words still rung in his head to this day, even if it had been months since they had been spoken. His son had run up to him as soon as he had mounted his horse to depart, and the little figure had been placed in his hands. So that he would have something to remember him, his son had said. It had broken his heart then, and it still did today.

Fast pacing outside of his tent told him that the time had come. He sighed, pressed his lips against the little statue like he always did and he gathered his sword to join his comrades outside.

"Estás listo?" one of his friends asked him with his usual, wide grin on his face.

He just nodded, and received a supporting hand on his shoulder as a response. It gave him assurance, and comfort, and his friend knew that. He had always known it.

He got on top of his horse, and dug his heels into the mare's flanks putting it in motion, just like all the other times before, giving orders and receiving them from his superior general.

He followed the others into the forest, where a black and silver line in the distance behind the trees announced the arrival of the French regiment.

And so, the battle began.

* * *

Tension seemed to be the only emotion Porthos was capable of at the moment. He could feel his heart nervously beating against his chest as he was walking along the lines of his men, all aligned in two straight lines, and all of their faces reflected what he was feeling at the moment.

Fear, determination and doubt.

Porthos had gotten to know his men ever since he had been appointed a general. And he had soon learnt that he wasn't the best when it came to giving motivational speeches, but apparently, he didn't need to. He did not know what it was his men saw, but they were a loyal group, devoted to their duty and keeping their faith in Porthos.

He could not assure them that his tactics, his maneuvers were always the best ones. He couldn't tell them when they would be able to return home again. But nevertheless, they stood their ground at his side, all facing the Spanish troops that continued to come closer.

He heard himself giving orders, and the regiment he commanded was put in motion, charging towards the Spanish troops with swords drawn. At his signal, the French muskets to his right thundered through the night. He heard the Spanish answer following closely, and strangled screams somewhere in the lines told him that some Spanish bullets had found their target.

The French marksmen felled another row of advancing Spanish soldiers, and Porthos started running. He had refused to wait on horseback on the other end of the battlefield, he had refused to stand by and watch. He had been told that he'd be able to overlook the situation better from afar, but years of experience on the battlefield had taught him something different.

He had to be with his men to know what they needed.

Porthos let out a warning yell and seconds later, the rows of French and Spanish infantry clashed. Steel clashed against steel, and strangled screams tore through the air. Porthos threw his shoulder against the first assailing enemy, a brave, but short Spanish soldier who looked as terrified as Porthos felt. Porthos' shoulder armor hit him right in the face, and he stumbled backwards, where he was greeted by the sword of his first lieutenant.

The General turned around and crossed his sword with the next man, disarming him with a trick Athos had taught him a decade ago. A gasp of surprise was the only thing his opponent was capable of, before Porthos defeated him.

And it went on and on. Sometimes, battlefields were open space, with two or three men fighting their duels, and once they were done they headed to the next one. Most of the times however, battlefields were a muddling mess of men stabbing and shooting everything within their sight they thought to be a threat. It was hard to tell who was a friend or a foe, and Porthos always looked twice before he raised his sword against someone.

He had no idea how long he had already been fighting, nor did he know how many he had defeated. A shorter Spanish soldier was forced into Porthos' way and raised his sword just in time above his head. Porthos' broadsword clashed hard against the smaller rapier, but the man prevailed and instantly lashed out with his sword, using his smaller size to his advantage.

Porthos was lucky to have a thick armor; otherwise, it would go down way differently. He took his sword into one hand only and pulled out a long dagger, sending a quick strike towards the Spaniard's face and forcing him back into defense. His opponent gritted his teeth as he blocked another one of Porthos' forceful strikes, but with an astounding strength for a man his size, he steered the General's sword to the side and dove underneath Porthos' arm and aimed for his leg. He had detected the weak point of Porthos' armor and the rapier cut through flesh and skin right above the General's knee.

Porthos hissed angrily and took a quick step back, wielding his sword blindly in front of him to keep the man away. This man clearly was an experienced swordsman, just like he was, and this new challenge only awoke two feelings in Porthos: fear, and respect.

Now the General made a step sideways, caught the man's sword halfway and instead hit him with the elbow right in his chin. He could feel how it knocked out at least one tooth, but the Spanish soldier, a little higher in rank as far as Porthos could tell by the uniform, escaped Porthos' stab to the chest and aimed for his neck.

Porthos was able to block the blow with his brace and struck the Spaniard with the dagger. His opponent bent backwards, but the blade sliced through the skin right above his eye. He was stunned, and it was the split second Porthos knew he could use to his advantage and strike the final blow.

But just as he was about to raise his sword to end this duel, the earth started to tremble and a loud neighing announced the arrival of the Spanish cavalry. Moments later, he was forced to jump out of the way of a large, black warhorse. Porthos was surprised, but started to yell orders to launch their own cavalry attack. He could hear his lieutenant repeat the order, but he had no idea whether it reached the waiting troops or not.

The General's attention snapped back to the Spanish soldier he had been fighting, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Others had taken his place, and Porthos contented himself with saving one of the musketeer cadets he had with him from a Spanish captain.

Porthos continued to fight through the lines of the Spanish soldiers, saving his own comrades, and protecting his own and their lives with everything he had.

Truth was, he knew that the battle was going to be short. And it was going to be bloody.

* * *

Only a short distance away, the Spanish lieutenant rammed his sword through the gut of a French soldier. Strands of his hair were glued to his face with blood, and the cut underneath his eye shone bright red. He turned away for a second to catch his breath and he realized that his encounter with the French general had been lucky. Hell, he had been lucky, though he thought that he managed to fight the musketeer off quite well.

The general was a good fighter, that was for sure, a fierce warrior, but the Spanish lieutenant found that it was his aura, his reputation that made the general so menacing. Half of the Spanish troops were too scared to lift their swords against the musketeer, and judging by his last encounter with said man, the Spaniard had to admit that they had their reasons to do so.

Through the noise of the battlefield, he heard someone call his name, and the man caught the warning just in time. The assailing French soldier only managed to cut through the armor, and was rewarded with a sword to the side.

The Spaniard lifted his head, his gaze searching the battlefield for the source of the warning only to spot his comrade of five years two enemies away, calling his name again, but less warningly this time. They exchanged a short nod, and the lieutenant yelled out the warning too late.

He could do nothing but watch while his friend of five years choked on his own blood, and the blade was pulled out with a disgusting sound he could hear over the screams and the noises of the battlefield.

The Spanish lieutenant didn't hesitate one minute. He pulled his pistol from his belt and blindly fired into the direction, before he was urged to turn around and cross the sword with another French soldier. A scream in his back assured him that his bullet had found a target, but it could've been friendly fire. He'd never know.

Tears blinded him as he continued to parry the strikes that were raining down on him, and he strongly believed that instincts and years of training were the only things that were guiding his hands at the moment.

All around him there were men falling to the ground, screaming and yelling. He noticed that most of them wore the same uniform as he did.

He defeated yet another French soldier, and two more appeared in front of him. He had expected them to look furious, and led by wrath, but as he looked up in their eyes, he saw the same numb expression he had had the past couple of weeks. No anger, no pain. Just the sheer hope that they'd come out of here alive.

He felt like he was watching someone else as he lifted his sword again, ready to fight the next duel. The trembling earth underneath his feet should've warned him, but he stood tall, defending another friend who had been defeated to his right.

The horseman had approached from behind and swung his sword violently.

The Spaniard felt a sharp pain in his back, and before he had the chance to realize what had happened, one of his opponents took the chance and stabbed him straight into the chest.

The next thing he knew was that he was halfway on the ground, his back resting awkwardly against the body of a fallen foe. His sword had pierced the ground on his way down and was out of reach. His fingers were clawing the dirt, and at the same time, they dug into pools of a warm, sticky substance. He did not know whose blood it was.

A horse passed by, missing his hand only barely. He looked up into the sky, seeing nothing but bloody, dirty faces and clashing swords. The earth underneath him was trembling.

The weight of his pocket was even heavier. He gasped for air, and listened to the noises he was able to hear. And once he ignored the screams, the clashing of steel, the sound of hooves, there was nothing but a strange silence.

Even the birds had forgotten how to sing.

* * *

Not all victories felt the same. During the first years of the war, every time they had defeated a part of the Spanish army in a battle, the French troops had celebrated as if they had won the entire war.

Now, Porthos could spot a smile somewhere. A brotherly hug somewhere else. But nobody celebrated. They merely expressed their relief over surviving yet another battle.

Porthos had received a report from his first lieutenant, and the two men now stood side by side, both still processing the past hour, and both of them watched the rising sun shine the red light on the fresh battlefield.

The Spanish General had been forced to retreat, and the now abandoned battlefield was left to Porthos and his men. The light on the battlefield granted Porthos a view of bodies scattered all over the field, abandoned weapons sticking out of the dry ground and blood watered the earth wherever he looked.

As usual, the triumph after the battle was terribly short-lived. As soon as the warm words to one another settled down and the silence took its place, they were reminded of their next, important steps.

"Organize a group of fit men to search the battlefield," Porthos murmured without a sign of emotions, his own words sounded very distant in his own ears. His voice was raw and hoarse, due to all the yelling he had done earlier. All he heard were the cries of the wounded men on the battleground. "And get me a horse."

He heard the confirming grunt from the lieutenant to his left and moments later, a young recruit appeared next to Porthos holding the reins of a black warhorse.

"Sir."

Porthos turned his head, grabbed the reins and threw the boy a thankful nod. He was going to search the battlefield too, just like he always did when he was able to. It hadn't become easier over the years.

With a sigh, he put his uninjured foot in the stirrup and lifted himself into the saddle.

The boy looked at his general with anticipation, and Porthos soon realized he was waiting for further orders.

"Get some rest," Porthos said tiredly, grasping the reins in his hands. "Hell, I know you earned it."

With that, he dug his heels into the horses' flanks and rode towards the battlefield, where he slowed down into a calm trot. The horse was throwing his head from one side to the other, as if he felt the cruel atmosphere too. Every now and again, there was a sound when its hooves hit against one of the weapons sticking out of the ground.

Porthos gently led the animal around the trees, his eyes on full alert. A small group of his men, those who were still fit and healthy enough to walk, were dragging the fallen French soldiers onto a cart. The medics were searching the battlefield for any wounded men.

Porthos too looked for any remaining survivors, but most eyes he saw were staring blindly into the void. Suddenly, his eyes fell on something, or better someone, he recognized and he pulled the reins violently to urge the animal to stop. Just in front of him was the body of a young former musketeer cadet. Porthos recognized him because it had been d'Artagnan who had asked him to take him under his watching eye, after the boy had left the musketeers to join the French forces in the war against Spain.

With a heavy heart, Porthos dismounted and trusted his horse not to leave him. Slowly but surely, he bent down on one knee, carefully laying one hand on the young man's shoulder, shaking him lightly. There was no reaction. Porthos gritted his teeth and fought hard to maintain an indifferent face as he turned the man around. There were two stab wounds in his back, and one had gone straight through his heart.

Porthos fell back down on both knees, concentrating on his breathing and finally, he straightened up a bit and called the soldiers over to take the man away. He had no idea how to tell d'Artagnan, but he was sure he was going to do it face to face, not in one of the many letters he wrote him.

The General turned on the heel and took his horses' reins back into his hands when a choked cough caught his attention. One hand automatically flew to his weapon, but deep inside, he knew it wasn't necessary.

His eyes wandered over the messy battleground, and he finally found the source of the sound and slowly approached the figure, in the middle of an open space, leaning against the body of another, fallen soldier. Porthos did not take the hands of his sword when he recognized the Spanish uniform, still, he did not back away.

The man's chest was covered in blood, his hands clutched against the gaping wound. His face was ashen, but the eyes widened with fear as soon as he spotted Porthos and in one subconscious movement, he seemingly tried to move away.

The General raised a hand, and showed he had no intention of killing him, before he carefully knelt in the dirt next to him. Porthos hesitated, knowing the man's fearful eyes were locked on him, and he suddenly recognized him as the shorter, Spanish soldier he had battled earlier. The duel they had never finished.

Porthos took a closer look at the uniform, and realized the man indeed seemed to be of higher rank. Not equal to Porthos' rank, but still, he had carried a similar responsibility. He not only had taken orders, he had given them too. The scars on the man's face spoke of years among the Spanish army.

Porthos did not know what exactly it was that made him forget the circumstances. Perhaps it was that he remembered the wild look this man had carried in his eyes on the battlefield, and which was now replaced by regret and pure fear. Not fear of Porthos, but of what was to come.

The musketeer carefully grabbed the man's shaking hand, and put the other one on his shoulder as support. The Spaniard seemed to understand Porthos wasn't going to hurt him, and he just stared at something, or someone, further away on the ground. Porthos followed his gaze, and saw another fallen Spanish soldier, with the face turned towards them. Maybe his superior captain, maybe his friend, or maybe even his brother. The General suddenly imagined himself on the ground, staring at Athos, Aramis or d'Artagnan lying out of reach. He gulped, and returned his attention to the Spaniard.

The man's hands were raw, and recalling his way to fight Porthos guessed he had been an experienced swordsman, just like his friend Athos. On the Spaniard's chest rested a small, golden cross, which told Porthos he was a man of faith. Like Aramis.

Porthos did not know what else to do, so he just sat there, mostly in silence, and tried to be a comforting presence in the Spanish soldier's last moments.

"Don't be scared," Porthos said with a low voice, not even sure the man understood his language.

The man's eyes snapped towards him, but they didn't tell Porthos whether he had understood it or not. Instead, he reached for the inside of his jacket with a shaking, bloodied hand, and pulled out a little, wooden figure. A wolf, if Porthos saw it correctly. The Spaniard looked at it admiringly,

"May I?" The General asked softly, and pointed towards the little figure. The Spaniard's eye lit up with a proud, but sad spark and he handed it to Porthos with hesitation.

Porthos carefully took it in his hands, and turned it around. It was indeed the little, wooden carving of a howling wolf. He inspected it closely, and narrowed his eyes to read the engraving.

_Para tí, Papa._

Porthos' mouth formed a crooked smile, and at the same time, he noticed tears gathering in his own eyes. He knew enough Spanish to understand. This man was a father, had a child somewhere far away. Who knew when it had been the last time they had seen each other. Porthos instinctively had to think about Elodie and Marie at home in Paris. It had been months since he had last seen them.

He pressed his lips together, and felt himself trembling slightly. Everyone embroiled in this war, no matter the heritage, the story, or the position. They all kept going, despite seeing blood and killing almost every damn day. They all kept going, because they all wanted to come home soon. And he felt no shame crying for a stranger he barely knew. He hadn't exchanged many words with him, but still, he felt like they understood each other.

He handed the figure back to the soldier, who hinted a smile and enclosed it with his entire hand.

"It's beautiful," Porthos said, still not caring whether the man understood him. "You must be proud."

The Spaniard's face was white as a sheet, but he suddenly reached out with another hand, his fingers uselessly clawing in the dirt, apparently trying to reach for his weapon that lay about two feet away.

"Por favor," he mumbled; his voice barely more than a whisper. His breath was rattling. "Mí espada."

Porthos understood. The man lived the life of a warrior, a soldier, and he wanted to go out as one. Aware of the possible danger, the General handed the man the rapier, feeling his own hand twitch towards his dagger. The Spaniard didn't even notice. He just lay there, one hand clutching his sword, the other one cradling the figure, with blood flowing freely from his chest.

It took over ten minutes, but Porthos stayed at his side the whole time. He didn't leave him alone.

* * *

When the sun was up high in the sky, and the crows had started to swarm the area, Porthos was seated at a makeshift table in their camp, only a short distance south. His expression was dark, and the feather was moving swiftly over a piece of paper. His handwriting was quite spidery, but it was a letter that would find itself to the palace, but for private matters. He knew that the minister would make sure that the former and current musketeer captain would receive this letter too.

So he started to describe their maneuver, he talked about the past week stuck in the muddy forest. He narrated the morality among the men, and justified his decision to not walk past the Spanish forces.

He then came to describe the battle that had taken place, and he started to write down what he was able to remember, short pieces and pictures that had made it to his memory.

He continued writing, and after a short while, he arrived at the part with the Spanish lieutenant. For a split second, he hesitated, but then he gave in, and the feather didn't stop scratching over the paper for five full minutes, until there was silence again.

One page. A whole page narrating the encounter with the man, Porthos' feelings towards it and the impact it had on him.

A whole page, and now the feather was quivering over the page, useless drops of ink falling down. A whole page, and Porthos did not know the man's name.

An unknown Spanish soldier. His opponent, his enemy. But also a father, a brother and a husband. Someone who had grown up far away, lived a different life, but shared the same fate on this dark day.

Porthos closed his eyes. He had been so disgustingly blind. Emotions were always the same.

And day and night, living in times of war, they were all equal. Equally frightened, equally proud, and equally scarred. No matter what else seperated them.

* * *

_Because under the steel, there's a hero like me who is sharing the same warrior heart  
I know we belong in this world full of fear, face to face with the scars you can't hide  
And once in a while, there's no shame in tears – Rhapsody of Fire_

-**The End-**


End file.
